


Tomahawk Jane - Roommate

by Apartment41



Series: Tomahawk Jane [2]
Category: Unspecified Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, F/F, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4383944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apartment41/pseuds/Apartment41
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane Lee was having a comfortable apocalypse.  </p><p>She'd secured enough water to survive for another month, and was working diligently on creating a makeshift apocalypse toilet.  Food wouldn't be an issue; ramen keeps for years.</p><p>Everything was going fine.</p><p>Until people happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Goddammit,” I grunt.

The toilet in my arms refuses to get any lighter, in stark violation of my repeated instructions. I growl in frustration, and continue to march up the stairs, my thighs burning, and my back aching. I slowly shift my weight, angling the toilet so it rests on my shoulder in a more comfortable position.

I huff. Some part of me thought lifting a fifty-pound toilet up a flight of stairs would be easy. I used to Olympic lift ninety pounds back at the gym, no problem, so why is this so difficult?

Finally I open up the door to the roof, and after some slow, painful maneuvering, manage to shove the toilet through the door and into the light of day. I almost smile. The sun is shining, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. But my work isn’t done. I groan and walk towards the back of the apartment complex, my arms chafing against the porcelain.

It’s taken me three days to get this far. And it all started with pooping.

The utilities shut off on the fourth day of the apocalypse. That’s when things started to get nasty. In addition to the lack of running water, which forced me to make the ill planned trip to Walgreens, I no longer had access to a working toilet.

Thankfully, there was a ready and somewhat hilarious stop-gap measure readily available: poop in a different toilet every day. And that’s what I did, for about three weeks. Every other day around mid afternoon I’d make my way to the second or third floor, find a new porcelain God and drop the kids off at the pool. I laughed every time.

For whatever reason, pooping in someone else’s toilet and not flushing is very funny to me. Which may explain why I always left a _ripe_ upper decker at my less successful one-night stands.

It didn’t take me long to realize however that fermented shit stinks. I know, big shocker. Even with all the doors closed and the windows cracked, the second and third floors still smell kind of off.

And, since I don’t want _eau de shit_ on the fourth or fifth floors, and since I was rapidly running out of toilets, I needed to devise a more permanent solution.

To pooping.

It didn’t take long for me to find one. My degree in Graphic Design didn’t give me a whole lot of experience in internal plumbing, or… anything practical, really, so jerry-rigging some post apocalyptic toilet system was out. But common sense, life experience and some careful observation has led me to a few conclusions:

1\. I live on a hill.  
2\. Shit rolls down hill.

Everything after that was pretty simple.

I finally reach the back of the apartment and gently set the toilet down.

“AAARGH!” I scream into the sky. It’s almost a hundred degrees outside, the humidity is choking and I am absolutely drenched in sweat. I slip my aviator sunglasses over my eyes, peel off my shirt and drape it over the roof’s ledge, letting it dry in the sun. Then I pick up my Nalgene bottle, and walk to the other side of the roof.

As I unscrew the cap, it occurs to me that I almost died getting the water inside this bottle. I laugh and gulp down a half-liter before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Below me, zombies clamber against the side of the apartment complex, their eyes locked onto mine. They’re shouting at me, begging me to come down and feed them. I look up, and all of San Francisco stretches out before me.

I sigh and rest my head on my fist. I’m not even sure why I came to this city anymore. I was born in Anchorage, Alaska, for Christ’s sake, to two Japanese immigrants who somehow got more lost than I’ve ever been. My childhood friends were sled dogs. My time was spent in the mountains and the forests. My favorite bird is the mosquito. My favorite season is deep, deep winter.

_What the fuck am I doing in California?_

School would be the easiest answer, I guess. I got a full ride to Berkley, thanks to my wicked performance as my high school’s sled-dog team captain, and a letter about the _ta-wibble ha-dship of gwowing up Jap-uh-nese in Ah-lah-ska._

Best essay of my life. Two pages about how kids used to pick on me and I felt like an outsider in my own country. After that, it was smooth sailing. I bet I’m one of the few people in my graduating class to leave without any student debt.

I scowl.

_Christ, Jane. Talk about cynical._

I guess some of the essay was true. High school sucked when everyone made fun of how squinty my eyes are. But most boys don’t know how to fight hand to hand, and most girls back off when you yank on their pigtails hard enough.

I smile thinking back to those days. I was never very popular in school. But I also never really cared. For better or worse, I was the “foreign girl,” despite being born a U.S. citizen. But because my parents spoke nothing but Japanese at home, learning English was hard, and I had to shake an accent. Nothing’s worse than answering a question in front of the class, hearing Tojo come out, and every kid in earshot laughing.

I snort. Things didn’t get much better as I moved away from home. They tell you Berkley’s a safe haven for every sex, gender, race, color, creed and orientation, but sexism is still alive and well. There’s a stereotype that white men fetishize Asian women. Let me tell you, _it’s one hundred percent true_. I’m confident most of the guys who glanced my way wanted to fuck me just because I look like Lucy Liu.

Which isn’t entirely a bad thing. She’s pushing fifty but I’d still eat her out.

Maybe they think Asian women are submissive. Maybe they’re looking for something exotic. Who knows. I chose partners who prioritized my brains and attitude first, my ass second, and my ability to cook a _mean_ bowl of noodles third. Worked out pretty well.

But thanks to two wicked successful internships and a referral from a good friend and former lover in Google’s HR department, I scored the mother of all entry-level jobs. A few phone calls to a friend in desperate need of a roommate in her low-end Lombard apartment, and I was in.

I’d won at life. Great education, great job in a great city, with no debt? I was set. I could spend my weekend climbing and drinking and fucking, and my weekdays working towards a bigger and fatter paycheck. Life was good.

I swirl my bottle around, mesmerized by the sloshing water.

_Those days are over._

I sigh and stand up. There’s still work to do if I want to ensure a relaxing and convenient every-other-day poop.

I giggle slightly.

_Poop. That’s a funny word._


	2. Chapter 2

I put my Nalgene back on the ground, and sigh.

The sun feels good on my back. When I’m done, I’ll grab my air mattress, strip down, lotion up, and spend the rest of the day on the roof. It’ll just be me, a good book, and a bottle of whiskey.

And the zombies. Lots and lots of zombies.

I walk back over to the toilet, and with a single grunt, hoist it back onto my shoulder. Careful to watch my footing, I slowly walk it over to the far ledge, where there’s a small gap between my building and the adjacent one. Ostensibly the gap was meant to allow access to the rear alley from the main road. But it mostly serves as a place for garbage and sewage to accumulate and drain onto the street.

But most importantly for my purposes, the concrete below is set at a steep angle, and drains past the alley, therefore bypassing Ruby, my Jeep, and continues towards the bottom of Lombard street, far from my apartment.

Once I realized that my poop solution, or poo-lution, if you will, would be to shit downhill, it became clear that this gap would be the ideal location for an improvised latrine. So I “borrowed” some 2x4s from the renovations they were making to the third floor, and with the saw on my trusty multi-tool, trimmed the boards to the appropriate length. Then I took a sheet of wood, trimmed it to the appropriate size, and carved a poop chute in the middle with my tomahawk. Did the same thing to the toilet. Bit trickier though.

I laid four 2x4s on the bottom, flat, and spaced equal distant apart from one another. Then I laid the board on top, careful to ensure that the poop chute had a clear, unobstructed view to the concrete below. Then I nailed all the wood together, and anchored everything in place with pillowcases full of gravel from the roof.

I pull a tube of epoxy resin from under one of the pillowcases, and smear it on the bottom of the toilet. Then gently lower the toilet onto the sheet of wood, careful to seat it over the poop chute on the first try. Once done, I look down, into the toilet’s bowl, and smile when I see straight to the ground below.

I laugh.

_Boom. Apocalypse toilet._

Now that everything is secure, it’s time to fortify my home away from home. Using my roommates tent poles and her abandoned tarp, I begin to construct a basic shelter over the toilet that will hopefully keep the toilet out of the weather. As I work, part of me drifts back to the Hunger Game books and movies.

What’s-her-tits, Katniss, spent a lot of time in the woods. They show her hunting, foraging, starving, dehydrating, all the typical staples of being in the woods for an extended period of time. But never shitting.

I mean, I kind of get it.

A. It’s book/movie series for kids.

B. You can easily go a few days without shitting. Especially in times of stress. I remember the first time I went on an extended sled dog trip. I didn’t shit for four days.

But they never show her peeing either.

And that’s just weird.

Finally done, I step back and admire my work. Part of me frowns. It’s not exactly an impressive structure. Ultimately, it’s a toilet sitting on a couple of boards underneath a tarp. Whoop-de-doo.

But dammit, it’s my toilet sitting on a couple of boards underneath a tarp.

And I’m going to take pride in that.

And a massive dump.

As I take my pants off and ease myself onto the seat, listening for signs of cracking wood, part of me realizes why they never showed Katniss relieving herself. It would’ve been gross.

 

After a satisfying deposit to the… hold on, I need a name… um…

_Porcelain Goddess? No._

_First Bank o’ Lady Jane? No._

_Sky Palace? …Sure, but keep brainstorming._

After a satisfying deposit to the Sky Palace, I return to my room, and bring back my pistol and harness, a tarp, my air mattress, a pair of flip flops, a copy of Dune, a bottle of sunblock, and my bottle of whiskey.

It’s barely noon when I start stripping. I peal out of my clothes with barely concealed excitement. I feel good. Everything is accounted for: I’ve got food, water, and a locked door. I can afford to relax.

_I deserve to relax._

My pants fall to the floor in a heap, and I kick them over to my boots. As my fingers dig under my sports bra, a wave of panic suddenly hits me. Suddenly I feel immodest, slutty, and foolish.

At the same time, I feel evil, roguish, and a little sinister.

I laugh and peal the bra off, with my panties quickly following. I take a big swig of whiskey, sit down on my air mattress, and begin to smear the sunblock over my naked body, giggling all the while.

The sun feels delicious on my skin. I’ve been cooped up inside for too long. I feel warm, and soft. My hands glide over my skin, lubricated by the sunblock. I pause at my nipples, teasing the soft, sensitive flesh. My other hand sneaks down between my legs, the fingers pressed together, undulating as a solid mass. I giggle and lay down, my eyes closed, aviator sunglasses barely blocking out the sun. The whiskey is making me happy, and I’m half tempted to run back downstairs for a more… _personal_ item.

But I think better of it. There’ll be plenty of time tonight.

I drag my hands away, my body screaming wicked thoughts at me, but the resistance feels good. I always liked playing like this; playing with myself beneath the desk during a boring lecture, eye-fucking some gorgeous stranger, and then going wild when I got back to the safety of my room.

My eyes wander over to the pistol harness, and a wry grin creeps onto my face. I pick up the rig, running a hand over the nylon straps. With eager hands, I clip it onto my waist, and draw the straps tight, until they’re digging into my flesh.

A warmth shoots through my veins, a binding electricity that shrieks with excitement. The tug of the nylon hurts, but in the most delicious way possible. I feel the cutting straps, the rough fabric, and the weight of the pistol and magazines. It’s a devilish sexiness. A heady mix of pain and power wrapped into one.

I roll onto my back, and groan. I direct one finger into my mouth, my tongue gliding over it. I bite on it, my teeth sinking into the tender flesh. My other hand darts between my legs, driving back and forth with energy. The mix of pain and pleasure feels so sweet.

 _More._ My body says.

_Nope, not now._

_More!_ My body says.

My hand grinds a little harder, and my fingers begin to spread out.

 _Nope! Not now!_ I yell back.

I bite harder on my finger, leaving deep marks in the pink flesh. My hand continues its work, rolling up and down. My fingers arch playfully.

 _MORE!_ My body is screaming now, its demands coming in torrential blasts. My fingers dig into my flesh, and a low groan rolls out of my mouth.

I bite harder on my finger, pull my hand away, and sit back up.

“Fuck…” I whisper. There’s a smile on my face. I begin to play with my hair, the smile growing wider and wider. I want to claw myself wide open. But it feels so good to hold back. I’m like a Christmas present. I know what’s inside, I want what’s inside, but the anticipation is almost the best part.

_Please more?_

_Nope._

I sigh and finish applying the sun block. Then I roll onto my stomach, loosen the straps on my harness, open Dune, and begin to read as best I can.

I make it half a page in before I sigh again.

“Fuck, I need to get laid.”

 _No shit!_ My body shouts back.


	3. Chapter 3

My eyelids creak open, fatigue still anchoring me to the air mattress.

The sun has drained me of energy, licked it off my skin with tender grace. My back feels warm, but un-burnt. Slowly I peel myself off the air mattress, my skin sticking to the thin membrane. My sweat stinks, and it rolls down my chest in thick beads.

I prop myself up on my knees, and stretch. I arch back until my hands touch the ground, then forward, until my ass sticks up in the air, and my face is pressed against the mattress. Muscles and tendons are pulled until they scream in agony, the stress gradually seeping away, to be replaced by deep relaxation.

I stand now, and look out over the San Francisco horizon. The sun has dipped lower. I glance at my watch, and smile. I’ve been asleep for nearly three hours. A good nap.

_Bang!_

My ears perk up. That was a gunshot, clear as day. High pitched and sharp as a thunderclap… and close. Very close.

I begin to dress.

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang!_

Someone has a machine gun. Or an assault rifle.

Or a submachine gun. Or a submachine pistol.

An automatic weapon, is what I’m saying. That’s the important part. And by the sound of it, they’re in a bit of trouble.

I cast my exhaustion to the side and begin to dress faster. Part of me is slightly revolted as I pull my pants onto my still sweat soaked skin. Dirt, grease, zombie blood, all these things are fine. Just not sweat.

_Bang, bang, BANG!_

There’s a new report now; a deep, throaty roar, and it’s getting louder. I can hear an engine, and tires screeching madly against concrete.

I pull my shirt over my head, right my jostled aviators, clip on my pistol harness, and run towards the edge of the building. With one foot planted on the small concrete wall marking the edge of the roof, I begin to scan the horizon. I can see the zombies in the streets, milling about in their hundreds and thousands. I can see the Pacific way off in the distance. And far off, nearly obscured by the salty sea air, is the Golden Gate Bridge.

But there’s no life.

...The zombies don’t count, as viruses aren’t technically alive, and so for the purposes of this apocalypse, zombies are not technically living. I’ll fucking fight you over that distinction.

_BANG!_

The throaty roar again, and much closer this time. I can hear the car too, and the wide open throttle. Someone’s in a big hurry.

_Shit._

A sense of helplessness closes in around me. There’s precisely _jack_ I can do to help whoever’s out there. The horde is blocking the alley, so there’s no way I could get to Ruby, and traveling by foot would be suicide. For now, all I can do is stand on my roof, and wait.

My heart is hammering in my chest now, adrenaline beginning to course through my veins. I want to fight, to do something. I want to charge onto the streets and run towards these people. But I can’t, and that’s pissing me off. I storm away from the ledge, lips in a snarl.

_Do I stay on the roof and wait to see what happens?_

_What if they need your help? What are you going to do with a pistol?_

_Should I get my M14?_

_What if you miss something?_

_FUCK!_

I walk back to the roof, hands over my head, and a deep scowl on my face. I’m paralyzed by indecision, which I hate. Cowards and teenagers in Japanese cartoons waffle over indecision. I _act._

Tires screech again, and now I can hear the zombies too. Their howls are growing ever louder, carried on the wind with a new vigor. The zombies below my apartment take notice, their heads craning towards the sounds of new prey. I can see their jaws snap back and forth, as if they’re already wrapped around the tender flesh of their next kill.

Some of the more eager ones towards the back of the mob begin to wander towards the commotion. They almost look happy, like they’re first in line in the murder conga-line.

A new bout of gunfire erupts, and I dart for the stairwell.

_Fuck this!_

If someone drives by my apartment, I’ll be no good to them with just a pistol. I bolt into my kitchen and skid to a halt, my boots burning lines into the floor boards. There on the table is my M14 and tomahawk. I pick up the heavy wooden rifle, slap in a magazine from my webbing, and pull back on the bolt. The steel feels heavy and strong, and makes a satisfying clack as it slams forward. An electricity tingles through my fingers, and a smile creeps onto my lips.  
I slide the tomahawk into its holster, and run back upstairs, my lungs fighting to keep up. I was never very good at sprinting, or distance running for that matter. I lift weights and climb, for God’s sake. If I need to move fast, I either ride a sled, or press harder on the gas.

My thighs are burning by the time I burst onto the roof. I sprint towards the roof’s edge, and stop just before the concrete terminus. A quarter of the horde has walked off now, all of them heading uphill. I can hear the car still, and the occasional eruption of a gunshot.

I crouch, and let my breathing steady.

Suddenly there’s a shriek of tires against concrete, and I can hear the car much more clearly. The zombie’s look uphill as one, and howl. They lurch as a single mass, the faster ones fighting through the mob in a mad gambit to reach their prey first. I lean over the roof’s ledge, careful to keep my balance.

There, tearing down Lombard Street, is a Honda Civic.

I laugh. And keep laughing until the diminutive little car plows into the horde. Bodies tumble to the side, limbs flailing, bones shattering against steel and pavement. One zombies is pushed forward, and promptly run over, its ribcage plowed into dough my the tiny sedans' wheels. Another is tossed into the air, before slamming into a light pole, its limp frame wrapping around it like a wet noodle.

The Honda plows into the horde with reckless abandon, but the zombies are tenacious. Four of them throw themselves onto the car, their hands grappling for purchase over the smooth steel hull. I can see the person riding shotgun, a woman, too distant to make out features. But I can see her skin is dark, and there’s a grimace on her face. She unloads on the zombies through the very hull of the car, the bullets cutting through the soft steel without a second thought, sending the would be pirates rolling onto the pavement.

I hold my M14 out, over the street, and wave my arms frantically.

“Hey!” I shout. “Here!”

Desperation enters my mind now. This is the first time I’ve seen other people since my apartment was slaughtered. These people could be monsters; horrible, shells of human beings left utterly desiccated by the End of the World. They may want to rape my petite Asian frame, or steel my food and water, leaving me to die a slow, agonizing death.

But I can fight back if that’s the case. If they’re hipsters who don’t believe in vaccinations or think the world is run by a shifty cabal of rich people, then as they’re not really a threat, I’m obligated to keep them alive, no matter how much they annoy me.

It would be a fate worse than death.

But  _people._ That means company.  That means someone to laugh with, to cry with, to get bored with.  That means someone to share with and fight with and  _be_ with.  Who cares if they're jerks or idiots?  At least it's a change in routine!

_Fuck it, it’s worth the risk._

I keep shouting, and wave the M14 as much as I dare, careful to keep a death grip on the wooden stock. The Honda keeps barreling down the hill, but I can see the driver now, a young man with a chiseled jaw and short, dirty blonde hair. We lock eyes, and I can see a sense of tender relief wash over his face.

He angles towards my building, and slams on the brakes as he passes before my apartment. The car plows into the horde, their heavy bodies making a sickening noise as bones shatter and organs rupture. The human wave brings the car to a halt, and the horde is soon clambering over the tiny Honda, the two humans screaming inside, gunfire punctuating their terror.

I stand on my roof, once again paralyzed with indecision.

Below me, the first humans I’ve seen for weeks are waiting to be clawed to pieces. I can help them. But there's a chance I’ll fail, and die.

I flick my M14’s safety off.

_That guy looked pretty good. Like Captain America. That’s probably worth it._


	4. Chapter 4

I run downstairs, my feet barely touching the steps. The barest outlines of a plan are forming in my mind. A murky image of heroism and Hollywood tactics interspersed with thoughts of death and the possibility of hot sex with a Marvel superhero, or at least some guy who looks _kind_ of like Chris Evans from a distance.

I barrel through my door and slide to a halt in my kitchen. I pull my leather jacket off the coat hangar, reach into the pocket, pull out my earplugs, and jam them into position. My world is suddenly filled with scratches and scrapes as the foam fills my ear canal, blocking out any sharp noises. I can hear my heart pound in my chest, and my breath fight its way though my throat. It’s a nauseating experience.

I loop my M14 over my shoulder, breathe deep, and walk into my living room. I’m going to risk my life today, for people I’ve never met before. For no reason other than they’re in front of my apartment, and in mortal danger.

_Fuuuuuck. If they’d stopped one block up they could be two more tragedies in a long list of tragedies. Now I actually have to help them._

I sigh, and pick up the weapon leaning against my couch.

My hands wrap around the weapon, fingers growing intimately familiar with every nook and cranny. It’s not like my M14. This device wasn’t born from hunting rifles. This isn’t a work of art. It’s an all steel tool designed for the express purpose of killing as many people as possible in as little time as possible.

It’s a scythe. A wraith. It’s been the last thing a lot of people saw before their life snuffed out, the last reel in the movie that was their existence.

_M-240 Bravo._

27.6 pounds of belt fed, air cooled, gas operated light machine gun. Capable of firing 950 rounds per minute. Must be fired in short, controlled bursts, or the barrel will turn white hot, and melt.

I have five hundred rounds on one belt, good for thirty seconds of sustained firing. Cyclic, they call it. A technique used in emergency situations where the enemy is close. Close enough to smell. Close enough to hear the sounds of their breathing. Close enough to see the whites of their eyes.

Close enough to where the line between enemies blurs, where politics is forgotten, where religion is forgotten, where ideology is forgotten, where only burning hatred and fear remains. Close enough to where, when the ammo is exhausted and weapons jam, knives and fists and teeth are the best weapons.

Five hundred rounds.

_Hope it’s enough._

I hold the 240 close, and begin to head for the fire escape, my plan coming into more clear focus as I run.

Step 1. Get to the fire escape.

Step 2. Mow down zombies until… I kill them all?

Problem: there’s a shit load of zombies. I have to make every single shot count if I want to kill all of them. And that’s just not going to happen. I’ve never used  this gun before, it’s automatic, and I’m freaking the fuck out (despite my best efforts). Accuracy is not very likely.

Step 3. Clear a path.

_You’ll never “clear a path.” The zombies will claw over their dead to reach the Car People._

Step 3. Buy Car People some time.

_To do what? Contemplate their existence?_

_They might be able to make it to me!_

_Ha ha, wow. That’s not gonna happen. They don’t know where you are, who you are, or how to get into the apartment. Unless you light the fire escape on fire, ironically, they’re not even going to realize there’s an escape route._

_FINE!_

Step 3. Thin the herd.

Step 4. Get to the car.

Step 5. Get Car People to the ladder.

…

…

_Whatever. Go for it._

I make it to the fire escape with burning limbs aching under the weight of the 240. The belt of ammunition is wrapped around my arm, the bullets clinking against one another as I run.

I almost throw myself against the far end of the fire escape. I have a clear shot to the Honda, and a chilling view. The zombies are piled on top of the car in a mass of flesh. They’re climbing over one another in a desperate gamble to claw their way inside, and consume the juicy human morsels inside.  
I prop the 240 up on the fire escape railing, flick the safety off, and crouch, putting my shoulder against the butt plate.

I close my eyes, and breathe in slow, measured breaths. My pounding heart slows, my mind eases back. Slowly, the tension fades away, and is replaced by a feeling of serenity. I feel safe, secure, confident.

_I have a light machine gun, and five hundred rounds of ammunition. What have I got to fear?_

I look through the scope, a U.S. C79, and line up on my first target. He’s towards the back of the mob, and had a bad sense of fashion. Jean shorts and a wife beater.

I smile. It’s a good day for him to die.

“Die motherfucker, die!” I scream as I pull the trigger.

The quip is timed for a single burst, five to seven rounds of hot lead vomit out the front of the machine gun, and tear into the zombie. Pink mist fills the air, and he falls, as do two zombies in front of him.

None of the other zombies seem to notice.

I sight down on the next target, a woman. She’s wearing a backless dress; small, black, and attractive. Through the scope, I can see her leathery, greying skin, the ridges of her spin, and the contours of her ribs.

I put the crosshair between her shoulder blades, and breathe.

“Die motherfucker, die!”

The burst rips through her back, and she drops like a lead weight, her auburn hair covering her face as she disappears under the mob. The zombie in front of her collapses as well, his whole body shaking in a death spasm. The one in front of him falls onto his back and stares at the sky. He clings to life for a moment, before choking on his own blood. My smile changes to a wicked grin as I sight on the next target.

Another trio falls, then another, and another.

The 240 bucks in my hands with righteous fury, copper casings tumbling out the side, clattering onto the fire escape, and falling to the alleyway below. My bullets cut through the horde like a scythe, round after round ripping through bone and organ and tissue like a hot knife through butter.

Bodies drop with the scream of a phrase and the squeeze of a trigger. I work methodically, clearing the rear elements of the herd, before working my way forward. It’s like peeling an onion.

One burst takes a zombie’s arm off. Another splits a skull. Another cleaves a spine in two, leaving the poor zack flopping around on the ground. I ignore him, and move on to fresher targets.

The belt of ammunition is rattling beside me as bullets are fed into the hungry gun. The barrel is smoking, with hot, acrid fumes rising in waves. My ears are ringing, and my eyes are watering from stinging bite of used gunpowder.

But there’s a smile on my face.

The horde is being trimmed right before me, the army of the undead brought to its knees with every shot that hits like a freight train.

I’ve finally cut a trough through the mob, with only two more layers between myself and the car. I keep them alive, to block any errant rounds from killing the people inside. Two final bursts finish off the zombies on top of the car, and after three more pulls of the trigger, I’ve exhausted the belt.

I stand up, my whole body shaking. I feel ten feet tall. I’ve just killed more than a hundred dead men and women. I feel so alive. So _powerful._

_Eat your heart out third wave feminism._

I drop the 240 onto the mountain of used brass, and savor the cordite that fills the air. It’s a wonderful smell. In a trance, I lower the fire escape ladder, mount it, and slide to the bottom.

There are zombies all around me, thirsting for my blood, hungry for my flesh. But a new sound fills my ringing ears.

Screams. Human screams. Scream of panic and desperation.

The people in the car are still alive.

I unsling my M14.


End file.
